


Fragility

by ShiningFrost



Category: Persona 5
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-07-08
Packaged: 2020-06-24 12:00:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19723258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShiningFrost/pseuds/ShiningFrost
Summary: Blood gushes from Yusuke’s chest, and Futaba screams.





	Fragility

**Author's Note:**

> It’s been forever since I’ve wrote anything, but Yutaba is still the best and I miss them. <3
> 
> Hopefully this short fic will jumpstart my creative juices. The next chapters of my ongoing fics and have been completely outlined, I just have to…write…them. I’ve got ~15% of Essence and ~10% of The Resistance written thus far ahaha.

Later, Futaba’s friends will offer convenient excuses on how she missed the shadow approach.

“We thought the path behind was clear,” says Makoto in her calm, authoritative voice. “If anyone is to blame, it is us on the field. We missed that disguised passage the shadow must have passed through.”

Ryuji nods vigorously. “We were focused on pummeling those damned Kumbhanda.”

“Mistakes happen,” says Haru, placing a warm hand on Futaba’s shoulder. “You are not to blame.”

Haru is wrong.

Futaba are cannot fight. Her only worth to these people she loves are in sensing shadows, in determining their weaknesses, in suggesting tactics. Her remote location allows her to see the bigger picture in battles, allows her to be safe and sheltered while her friends risk their lives.

Futaba is the navigator of the Phantom Thieves. She is the one who suggested Yusuke stand twenty paces behind Akira, Makoto, and Ryuji. She is the one who thought three people between him and the swarm of shadows weak to his ice magic were enough - the one who did not see the murky darkness shooting towards Yusuke.

She only notices something amiss when he drops to the floor.

Always eager to assume the worst of him, she yells, “I told you to stretch Inari, you can’t be cramping in the middle of—”

Blood pools at Yusuke’s side. Futaba’s words morph into an incomprehensible scream.

“Yusuke!” shouts Ann. She dashes out of the safe room, Morgana and Haru fast behind her.

The safe room isn’t far, but the three hadn’t been resting long enough for their wounds to recover. They won’t make it in time. Futaba’s mindless scream turns into a gurgle as the robed shadow smashes into Yusuke a second time. His body flies, hits a slots machine, and tumbles to the ground.

Makoto is fastest to react. Ducking a swipe from a clawed hand, she pulls her revolver out and fires two shots at the Skadi.

The shadow screeches and stumbles away from Yusuke.

“Shit shit shit,” swears Ryuji. He swings an iron pipe at the Kumbhanda that attacked Makoto. Its death shriek rattles into the air, and it vanishes in a cascade of blackness.

Futaba does not notice, her attention on Yusuke’s body. He is not moving.

Akira takes a hit on the shoulder from the remaining Kumbhanda. He ducks into a forward roll from the momentum, and a sizzling burst of electricity dissuades the shadow from following.

Their leader leaps to Yusuke’s side. He shoves a pearlescent bead into Yusuke’s mouth, then switches Personas. A blue light surrounds Yusuke. The large gash closes.

Ann, Morgana, and Haru enter the hallway. Haru doesn’t bother getting closer. She summons Milady and rains a hail of bullets on the two remaining shadows Ryuji and Makoto are keeping from Yusuke’s body. Morgana and Ann head straight to Yusuke, their Personas summoned to add their healing magics to Akira’s.

Futaba can do nothing but watch.

* * *

“How did he get beat up so badly!?” Takemi’s disaproving glare sweeps around them. Only Futaba notices; the rest of the Phantom Thieves are focused on Yusuke.

She alone can’t look at him, at the body bruised from the shadow she did not sense.

“Hiking,” says Akira, in a light tone that belies the worried expression on his face. Everyone (well, everyone but Futaba, safe and sequestered) suffered injuries when fighting shadows, but no one had ever been knocked unconscious and stayed that way through healing magic, items, and a return to the real world. “He took a selfie at the wrong spot and fell.”

Takemi scrunches her face. The doctor doesn’t believe the obvious lie, but her gaze eases as she takes in the somber atmosphere. “He’ll live. He’s severely anemic anyways, and the blood loss didn’t help.” She frowns; during the physical, she had mentioned how odd it was that the patient seemed to have lost so much blood without a visible wound. “But the transfusion was successful. He’ll be sore when he wakes, and he should avoid these _oh so dangerous_ trails, but he’ll be fine. I’ll mix some creams to spread the recovery.”

Ryuji manages a small chuckle. “Knew our Fox would be fine. Probably having some wild dreams he can’t wait to paint.”

“We gotta feed him more,” says Ann. “Any room to bump up his food intake?

Makoto taps her tablet, which has a google calendar of rotating dinner schedules pulled up. “He gets suspicious if we take him out to eat more than three days a week, but he might be receptive to less formal food events.”

“I could take him to my modeling sessions. There’s always fruit and vegetable trays there.”

“Don’t forget sleep!” chips in Morgana, curled on Yusuke’s chest. “Akira’s lucky I’m around to make sure he gets his eight hours. I’ll stop by Yusuke’s dorm to remind him to go to bed on time.”

Haru takes out her checkbook. “Dr. Takemi, thank you so much for the excellent care at such a late hour. What is the rate for your services?”

Takemi refuses payment. She and Haru engage in a polite but increasingly loud argument over this refusal. Akira mutters that Takemi should take the money so she can financially compensate participants of any relevant clinical trials, and the doctor jabs him in the neck with two pointy fingernails.

Futaba alone stays silent through relieved chatter.

* * *

Hard, warm light streaks through the window. Futaba lifts her head and blinks groggily. On the pillow lies her glasses, next to a Futaba-sized indentation. She wipes the lens with her shirt and puts them on.

The world focuses. Staring right at her is a Kitagawa Yusuke.

She yelps and falls out of the chair. Yusuke jerks to reach out for her, but at the sudden movement, his face tightens in intense pain.

“Stupid Inari, stay still!” From the floor, Futaba frantically crosses her arms in an X shape. “If you hurt yourself again, I’m gonna rip out one of your ribs and beat you with it!”

“I would be interested in seeing my rib,” says Yusuke, though he obeys and leans back. “We only get skulls and femurs in my art classes.”

Futaba pulls herself on the chair. She’d been sleeping at the foot of his bed, complete with a pillow and blanket like a cheesy drama.

Yusuke looks better. Bandages wrap his torso, but they’re white and fresh, unlike the blood-soaked ones he’d had when they carried him to Takemi’s clinic. With his paleness, he was never going to recover any color, but he’s awake. For a long, terrible moment last night, Futaba didn't think he would.

She lowers her eyes. “Where’s Akira?”

“He left shortly after I woke up. I thought he would bring you home, but he said you would like to see me awaken.” How could she feel his eyes on her even when she wasn’t looking? “Thank you for staying.”

He shouldn’t be thanking her for anything. He wouldn’t be here, bruised and sore and with an IV piercing his veins, if she hadn’t failed at the one thing that she was good at in the Phantom Thieves. Futaba swallows, but the lump in her throat remains.

“I do not remember much about the battle. Were you able to make any more progress in the palace?”

“You dumbass,” her voice is a croak, and her heart isn’t in the insult. “We left as soon as we stabilized you.”

“I see…I apologize for holding back the advancement. For Makoto’s sake, I wanted us to complete Sae’s palace as soon as possible.”

Stupid Inari. Why can’t he think about himself? Futaba wraps her arms around the pillow and buries her head in it.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbles to the pillow. The case has a faint yellow stain on it. Takemi should bleach it or get black ones instead.

“What for?” The confusion in Yusuke’s voice must be genuine. He’s honest even when lying is the better option.

“I didn’t see…the shadow came and…didn’t sense anything.” Futaba shakes and burrows her face deeper. “Shouldn’t have told you to stand away from the rest.”

“Are you…crying?”

“Shut up.”

He does. Futaba sits slumped with her head face down in an increasingly wet pillow and wishes an earthquake would knock over a tree that would smash her into a tiny pulp. Yusuke almost lost his life, and he isn’t even doing her the decency of yelling at her for her incompetence.

“There is risk every time we enter a palace to fight shadows.” Yusuke’s voice is gentle, the infuriating baby-talk tone he uses with his lobsters. “I accept this risk, as do we all.”

“But I made it worse.” The pillow muffles her words. “Should’ve been more careful.”

“Your tactics have kept our party safe many times before. Nobody has perfect judgment. I myself have made plenty of mistakes, many of a more permanent nature. The other day, I mixed a shade of green with too much of a yellow tint. One of the lights inside the classroom had dimmed, and I did not notice the error until the paint had dried. Alas, my forest depicts an early afternoon in summer rather than an autumn day at sunset. I will have to redo my entire painting.”

Futaba snorts. A trickle of salty tears dribbles into her mouth.

The mattress moves, and the sheets rustle. Alarmed, Futaba yanks her head up, but Yusuke movements are slow and careful as he crawls to her. She’s too stunned to move away. He rarely moves closer to her - if anything, he’s always scrambling away while Futaba attempts to slip yellow slime into his pockets.

“If you feel so strongly about this, I would accept a bowl of curry as suitable recompense,” he says, lowering his head to her height, “although the cessation of your crying would be more than acceptable. I fear for my safety if Sojiro or Akira find you this way in my presence.”

Here he is, smiling at her, while she plays the single host of a pity party. “‘’mnot crying.” She wipes her face clean. “How spicy do you want it?”

“Fifteen jalapeños, please.”

“You can barely handle three.”

“I plan to freeze them and use them as decongestants in preparation for spring.”

* * *

A shadow the silhouette of an anorexic giraffe falls on Futaba.

“Go away,” she says, refusing to lift her gaze from Necronomicon’s visual display of the Mementos floor. ”I gotta concentrate.”

“On covering our friends fighting shadows barely half our strength?”

“Yup.”

Yusuke does not go away. Even worse, he sits beside her. Warmth radiates from his body, and Futaba’s surprised there’s enough of him to give off heat. Fighting the urge to scoot away, she settles on leaning closer to the screen, her glasses piercing the supernatural visual.

“This is our fifth day in a row in Mementos,” says Yusuke in his deep baritone.

“You tore yourself away from a canvas long enough to learn counting?”

“In this time,” Yusuke continues, swimming over her quick insults with he ease of long practice, “I have yet to be included in the party to advance in Mementos.”

“If you’ve got a problem with the party selection, talk to Akira.”

“I did.”

…fuck.

Futaba chances a glance at Yusuke’s face. It’s as smooth and unruffled and pretty as it always is. If only her own could be so composed. Heat flushes through her, the telltale sign that her face is as red as Ann’s suit.

Akira wouldn’t betray her. He hadn’t agreed with her request and had tried to talk her out of it, but he wouldn’t straight up tell Yusuke that she had refused to come into Mementos unless Yusuke wasn’t going to be fighting.

Futaba shrugs, attempting to copy the easy, graceful nonchalance that Ann and Haru can pull off. “None of my business. Maybe he’ll bring you along if you do some push-ups.”

“I doubt he wishes to incur your wrath, regardless of my upper body strength.”

Shit. Futaba lets out a nervous laugh similar to a chihuahua with a head cold. “A-aren’t you still recovering?”

“Dr. Takemi cleared me for physical activity.”

Futaba had tried to hack into Takemi’s lab tests, but she hadn’t understood enough of the medical jargon to determine what changes would keep Yusuke sidelined, would keep him safe. Futaba moves her hands over the display of the Mementos floor. The Morgana bus speeds through - she wishes a shadow would appear, would give her an excuse to abort this conversation.

“I cannot stay behind,” says Yusuke, and for the first time since she’s known him, a hard edge laces his voice. He is not happy to have sat out these past five days at Mementos. “Not while our friends become stronger to defeat the evil that the corrupt adults bring.”

“I stay behind.”

“Your skills grant you the advantage of watching over us from a distance. I am not so fortunate. I must be in the front lines.”

Futaba tilts her head, hair falling to create an additional barrier between him and her. When she finally speaks, it is in a whisper. “I don’t want you to die.”

It’s the nicest thing she’s ever said to him, and she directs her words to the cracked tiles that make up the Mementos floor.

Fingers graze her chin, shooting bolts of electricity through her. Futaba’s jaw drops. Yusuke hates physical contact - in no universe would he willingly touch someone, and yet he’s turning her head towards him.

“I have never had friends before the Phantom Thieves. Above all, I want to be strong to protect them. To protect you.”

Above his meandering commentary on the benefits of doubling deodorant as toothpaste, she hates this most about Yusuke - hates more than vapid harem anime that he says corny stuff like this. Stuff that makes Futaba think _maybe_. But Yusuke is Yusuke, and he talks like this about Akira, about that shogi-playing classmate, about a stranger who lets him onto the subway train first. She knows this, ‘cause she had bugged the microphone of Yusuke’s phone for a week before Sojiro made her stop.

And she’s a wimp and an idiot and rejection is worse than her own death, but Yusuke’s eyes are bright and earnest and he’s so goddamn pretty.

Futaba grabs his face and smacks her lips against his.

“Don’t you dare die.” She rakes her fingernails across his cheeks. She doesn’t care if he doesn’t return her feelings - so long as he lives, and is happy, she doesn't care. “I will chop you into an Inari fillet and roll you into sushi and feed you to Morgana.”

“I…noted.” His mouth is open with his tongue hanging out. Drool trickles down his chin - which is actually a faint pink, the most color she’s ever seen in his white face - and he’s staring at her as if she’d made a crown of dead frogs and was dancing naked on flaming glass.

It’s hilarious, or at least it is until Futaba realizes that maybe she does care, just a little bit, about rejection. Ann squeals off to their left and Ryuji hushes her with a “shut up, you know how they are, they ain’t gonna talk to each other for a month if you start fangirling and embarrassing ‘em.” Futaba lets go of Yusuke’s face, now lightly marred with scratches, but before she can fling herself to the opposite end of this room, he catches her wrists.

“May I kiss you again?”

* * *

A whirlwind whips through the long fur of the shadow. The blue lion spins, loses its balance, and falls hard with a grating wail. It barely touches the floor before Yusuke is on top of the shadow, cleaving it in two with his katana. The Barong splinters. The battle ends.

Prometheus’s rainbow lines shine brighter and brighter until a flash fills the safe room, then dissipates. Out on the palace, a soft light drapes on Akira, on Morgana and Haru. On Yusuke, who stands up in that bizarre, snake-like silky movement that always makes Futaba smile. Their wounds close and their magic reservoir fills.

They’re close to Shido’s treasure now, close to putting an end to the murderer that ordered her mother’s death. She’ll protect Yusuke, she’ll protect them all. They’re going to win.


End file.
